K. Morris's Blog, page 617
January 22, 2017
There Was A Young Poet Called Horace
There was a young poet called Morris
Who laid claim to The Odes of Horace.
When they put him on trial
He said “there can be no denial
That my real name, it is Horace!”
An Elderly Man Of The World Looks Back
When young
Caution he flung
Away,
For he knew from the start,
In the secret recesses of his heart
They would not stay,
(The girls out for fun,
After whom he did run).
There is no disgrace
In the chase
He thought
But why court
When a sort
Of love is so easily bought?
They came and went.
His heart was rent
As money he spent
On an attachment
To a kind of detachment
Which led …
Now in old age
He does uselessly rage
At the phantoms who dance
In a parrady of romance
Upon the stage
Of his own cre...
10 Reasons Why You Should Not Write For Fame and Fortune #SundayBlogShare #Writer
Number 10 particularly resonated with me, “True writers don’t think about the destination of their work. They are too busy falling in love with their writing during the journey”.
Ever questioned why you write?
Ever wondered why you spend hours and hours slaving away over a piece of writing?
If your answer is “because I want to be rich and famous!” – check out my list below.
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January 21, 2017
A Short Sighted Police Officer Called Mia
A short sighted police officer called Mia
Arrested a young lady named Tia.
On taking another look,
She said “I mistook
You for my nemesis Maria!”
There Was A Young Man Called Adolf
There was a young man called Adolf
Who was very fond of his golf.
On his wedding day
He stayed away
And played with his golfing partner Rolfe!
I Dreamed that I was Dead
I dreamed that I was dead.
There was no dread,
Merely a desire
To cross the barbed wire
And escape something or somewhere,
Perhaps despair.
Pressing my hand against the barbed wire, I felt no pain.
No guards came.
I did not cross, for I new I should find
That which I had left behind
– A man locked in his own mind.
January 20, 2017
A Minor Poet, of Little Note
A minor poet, of little note,
Once a poem wrote.
I am sad to say,
That self-same day
His verse was eaten by a goat.
the man of letters said, in a most melancholy tone
“would that you had left my verse alone
O most vile goat
And fed
Instead
Upon my coat”.
January 19, 2017
Poetry: Painted Words
This poem by Linda Wolff speaks for itself.
I wish I could paint it… in a picture.
Hateful words—Hurtful words.
Words that are, carelessly thrown from an open mouth.
Words that cut, right through to the soul.
The way they bleed internally.
Some will never allow the invisible scars, to be visible.
Some will never know, it stealsone’s, soul.
I wish I could show, how hurtful, hateful words,
look on canvas and how the paint flows over ridges.
How something so colorful, becomes black...
PREVIEW 5 Poems FREE from ‘My Vibrating Vertebrae’ by Agnes Mae Graham…
Chris The Story Reading Ape's Blog
We all have dreams, loves and hopes; but what if you are a girl growing up in 20th century Northern Ireland before, during and after the ‘Troubles’?
From the poetic thoughts of Agnes Mae Graham, we get a sense of what it was like, ranging from humour, sadness, wistful thinking and sometimes just downright nonsensical, these are the words of one such girl.
CLICK BELOW to PREVIEW, BUY and/or SHARE: Other Amazon Links: UK – USA – CA – AUS
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